


before the last sea and the hapless stars

by elevensie



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, Dogfight AU, Drunken Mistakes, First Kiss, Lots of Gabe Saporta being a dickhead, M/M, Patrick wants to be a folk singer, Pete is a desillusioned marine, Slow Dancing, Vietnam War, based on both the musical and the movie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-01-29 06:53:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12625566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elevensie/pseuds/elevensie
Summary: “People like me?” Patrick asked. He raised his legs up on the mattress and leaned against the wall.“People like you. People who make their beds even when they don’t have to and play guitar at work and take their shoes off inside. People who bother to remember the lyrics of songs and who eat ice cream in the fall. People who forgive and forgive, again and again.”It's Pete's last day before being shipped off to Vietnam. It's Patrick's first date. The two boys get caught up in a terrible game. Can love blossom from the worst of intentions?





	1. Chapter 1

_ 1967 _

I have never been one to believe in fate. Destiny sucks losers dry. I have never been particularly lucky or unlucky. I have rarely felt plagued by injustice or overwhelmed with my own victories. If God does exist, he doesn’t care much for me. I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t bother with me either. There are far more deserving people out there.

My father used to wear a cross around his neck. He gave it to me before I left. I can’t find it anymore. There isn’t much left from  _ before.  _ I threw all of my clothes away before the big day. Joe said we could’ve packed a few, just in case, but I knew I would outgrow them. I didn’t gain a pound or an inch over there. If anything, I shrank. But I was right. I doubt I could button one of those shirts again. These clothes don’t belong to me anymore.

I always thought of Chicago as a beautiful city, but I’m starting to wonder if anything can truly be beautiful nowadays. Gabe said Vietnam was pretty too. He once showed me postcards with pictures of white beaches drowning in golden sun and tall majestic hills covered in trees and grass. The Vietnam I saw wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t colorful. At times, it seemed like a black and white photograph, with splatters of red on the corners. Sometimes, there was green too. Not a pretty green. Uniform green, dry, exhausted grass green, starved out, nauseous skin green. I wish Gabe had died in a pretty shade of green. He deserved the grandeur of his postcards.

I liked to think of Chicago as beautiful but it’s not. It’s intact. It’s unmarked. It’s easy to see beauty in the pristine. It would look as ugly as Vietnam if it was littered with the cadavers of its sons, if its skyline came tumbling down to the beat of the missiles. Beauty is much rarer than we like to believe. And once you realize that, you get even more desperate to find it.

This boy was beautiful. Yeah, that I can swear to be true. He was damaged. He was one of those people God forgot about, just like me. His eyes weren’t a particularly striking color. I can’t quite remember what shade they were either. But they glowed. And when you see light in another person’s face, you never forget it.

He wore his loneliness like crown. I couldn’t bear to be alone. He saw the best in people. I was a social pessimist, hunting for deception in the friendliest of smiles. He held his guitar awkwardly, like he was afraid he would shatter it with his fingers. He made a mean coke float, with just the right amount of ice cream. I didn’t know his mother’s name. He never told me the name of the street he grew up on. I can’t say I fell in love that night. I was too young to know what those words meant, anyway. But I remember that he was beautiful.

***

_ 1963 _

“What do you think you’ll miss more over there?” Joe chewed on his sugar sprinkled donut with a ferocity I had rarely seen in him. “Apart from the food.”

“Ah, fuck.” Gabe snorted. He had already swallowed his pastry and was now licking the frosting off his fingers. “You eliminated the only thing I care about.”

“That and booze,” I added. My two friends laughed and held their beer in the air in agreement, yelling out an exaggerated and boastful “ _ Amen! _ ”

“Man… I feel like we decided to leave yesterday.” Joe sighed, with nostalgia. He had this awful habit of going from jokes to gut-wrenching reflections in the blink of an eye. “Yet, here we are, on our last night in Chicago.”

Joining the marines had only seemed like the logical thing to do. Gabe, Joe and I weren’t scholars by any means, having given up on the idea of attending college a long-time ago. We had somewhat of a bad reputation around Chicago, making it a lot more difficult to find any kind of job. We spent most of the time sitting around with cigarettes in our mouths, playing pool, where we earned most of our money and drinking lukewarm beer. Gabe called this “hustling” but it mostly consisted of us sweet-talking strangers and stuffing our mouths with terrible food.

None of us cared for politics. We didn’t really understand why there was a war or who America was fighting. From one day to the next, posters in red, white and blue started popping up in store windows, on bar counters and inside bathroom stalls. Andy Hurley, a boy who had gone to my high school, showed up at the bar every now and then, and handed out flyers protesting the war. He had long ginger hair and talked real soft, like he was afraid other people would hear, but his ideas were loud and his attitude anything but apologetic. Gabe called him a hippie, mostly because he wore shaggy clothes and smelled like grass, but he was just a kid with funny ideas. I doubted he even smoked. He simply hung around the kind of people who did.

“Don’t let the big guys turn you into the State’s puppet! They’re using the Communist threat like a scapegoat!”

Andy always talked about “They”, with a capital T, but never called them by name. It was confusing at times. No one really knew who he was angry at anymore. It seemed awfully easy to point your finger at faceless monsters.

Despite Andy’s protests, Gabe, Joe and I enlisted in the U.S. Marine Corps. We figured that if Andy’s warnings were true, we would be drafted anyway. The three of us preferred joining the fight on our own terms. It was a pride thing. We were stupid, hubristic teenagers. If there was anything better than becoming a man, it was becoming a man with a gun.

I didn’t particularly like fights but didn’t consider myself a pacifist either. Sometimes a fist to the face just couldn’t be avoided. Andy was a pretty smart kid but he was wrong if he truly believed that peace could solve all feuds. That’s just not how the world worked.

“You know what I’m not psyched about? Boats. I get sea-sick. I’m talking puking and puking and puking until it feels like my lungs are about to come out covered in my own bile. The real deal.”

“Spare us the details, Gabe. Jesus fucking Christ,” I stopped him with disgust.

Gabe rolled his eyes and Joe grinned as he took another bite of his donut. That’s how most of our conversations went. Gabe said something stupid, I reprimanded him, Gabe fought back and Joe laughed at our bickering. Most guys our age fought with everyone. Something about built-up tension or primal survival instincts. We were no exception. But we always forgave each other. It’s not really fighting if no one gets hurt.

“When are you guys shipping out?”

The girl behind the counter, who had overheard our conversation, leaned in towards our table. She had cut her hair short and was sporting those big loop hearings like the girls on magazine covers. She had gorgeous eyes and a pointy nose. She looked like a tiny bat, but with wispier lashes.

“Tomorrow morning,” I answered, “8 o’clock sharp.”

“Wow.” She nodded. Her tone was mute of all actual amazement but she pulled three beers from under the counter and pointed them in our direction. “On the house.”

“Groovy!” Joe yelled out.  _ Groovy _ ? Who even said that? He had spent too much time around Andy.

He got up and grabbed the beverages. The waitress flashed a smile and I could almost smell a hint of jealousy in Gabe’s frown. Good for him. He deserved it for giving us so many details about his motion sickness.

“Best decision we ever made.” Joe spat out, excited. “Just one little year overseas and it’s free beers for us for the rest of our lives! Can you believe people are actually protesting this stupid excuse of a war? We haven’t even killed anyone and we’re already heroes.”

I could picture it. Banners with our names written in bright paint hanging on the streets of Chicago. Confetti stuck to our hair and skin. Marching bands. American flags swaying in the wind to the beat of the drums. Vanilla cake and apple pie for days. Old ladies shaking our hands on the street. Pats on the backs from strangers and “Congratulations!” and medals and our names carved out like heroes into the stone.

“We should celebrate. Our last night out before we go out and become real men. It’s a big deal. We shouldn’t spend it drinking in a circle in the same bar we always hang in. Y’know, try to organize something better.” Gabe suggested as he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket.

I had met Gabe five years earlier, back when we were both sixteen. I was wasting time in a parking lot, pretending to be watching out for passers-by as my buddy was attempting to hotwire a car. Gabe had seen the both of us and threatened to call the cops. I gave him a pack of cigarettes to shut him up. His silence was instantly bought. My friend never ended up stealing that car. Another failed attempt at recklessness and cigarettes wasted on some child of Uruguayan immigrants with a big mouth and lanky legs. Somehow, we never left each other after that. At first, I believed Gabe was only sticking by my side for free smokes and I mostly put up with his rambling in the fear he would rat us out. Something stronger grew from this weird alliance. I eventually got around to calling him my friend.

Gabe introduced me to Joe a few months after the grand theft auto incident. Gabe had met him at the synagogue when Joe had knocked a candle over and almost set the whole place on fire. Both sons of Jewish parents, Gabe and Joe had a complicity I sometimes struggled to understand. They spoke in winks and frowns and half-grins.

Joe had baby blue eyes and curly hair he couldn’t tame. Gabe was a giant, almost a foot taller than me and his tan limbs were awkward and long. I was the smallest of the gang, with short afro-textured hair inherited from my mother and permanent bags under my eyes. We were a mismatched bunch, like pairs of ill-fitting socks but we stood next to each other with pride.

“What do you suggest, Gabriel?” I said, raising an eyebrow. I rarely called Gabe by his full name, mostly because he insisted we’d pronounce it with an accent I couldn’t replicate.

“You guys ever heard of a ‘dogfight’ party?”

“Can’t say I have.” Joe shrugged. I imitated him. I knew Gabe couldn’t haven’t meant an actual fight involving dogs. He didn’t always make the smartest decisions and loved making a quick buck by betting on ridiculous things, but he wasn’t out of his mind either.

“It’s real simple. Everyone pitches in twenty five dollars. Then we all have an hour to bring back the ugliest date we can find. The guy who brings back the worst-looking date- or dog, if you will- wins the pot at the end of the night. It’s easy.”

“That seems… kinda mean.” Joe hesitated. Gabe loved finding excuses to compete and this “dogfight” was just his latest trick. He had suggested far stranger activities.

Joe was witty and quick on his feet but he also knew when to keep his mouth shut, a skill both Gabe and I seemed to lack. He noticed every detail and remember every word, meaning he was terribly good at insults, but only spoke when he had perfectly calculated his attacks. He was very smart, not just street smart. It was almost a shame he’d refused to go to university. I often joked about how he could’ve earned a living operating on hearts or researching ancient civilizations in Egypt. He always brushed it off and I never figured out if he ignored me because he knew it was the truth.

“Hey, if you’re too chicken because you know you can’t even pickup some ugly girl from a street corner, you don’t have to participate.” Gabe raised both his hands in the air, as if he wanted to claim his own innocence. “This can be between me and Pete.”

I shrugged. I didn’t really have anything to lose. Twenty-five dollars wasn’t much. And I certainly wouldn’t be using that money in Vietnam. Winning would be a sweet last minute treat nothing more. Backing down would’ve been too humiliating. I knew Gabe wouldn’t take no for answer. Plus, who cared about my date? They would never see me again after tonight. If anything, it would give them bragging rights for the next coming years. It’s not everyday you get to go out with a future great American warrior.

“Fine. It’s a deal.” I pulled my wallet from inside my jacket and pulled out the bills I was still carrying with me.

“Joseph?” Gabe turned to Joe as he flashed him a phony, commercial smile, with his cigarette still between his teeth. Joe sighed and followed my lead, placing a few dollars on the table.

“I’m going to destroy the both of you shitheads.” He muttered, shaking his head.

Joe had too much of an ego problem to bow down to a snickering Gabe. We all shook hands to seal the agreement and Gabe handed the waitress the stack of cash, making her promise to keep it hidden until a winner was proclaimed. Uncertain of what he meant, she simply placed it underneath the counter and nodded.

Enlisting was the closest thing to a mature decision Gabe had ever done. He told terrible jokes to strangers he met in shady bars and got so many drinks thrown in his face he could’ve started a collection. He loved inserting random Spanish words in the middle of sentences just to piss us off because it never made any sense. His jeans were always way too high on his waist, as if he had stolen them from his mother’s closet and he spent way too much time combing his hair. He walked around like the world belonged to him and he was so convincing, sometimes I believed it too.

Both Joe and I knew Gabe could’ve charmed anyone into attending our made-up celebration. It seemed like he could wear anyone down. This meant we needed one hell of a catch to win this dogfight, because our friend would not have suggested a game he wasn’t certain he could win himself.

I headed into the street, with my burn out cigarette tucked behind my ear. I shoved my hands in my pockets and swallowed the crisp air as my breath materialized into a thin cloud of fog. I cursed at myself for listening to Gabe and only wearing a thin leather jacket out. What did he even know about fashion, anyway? His sweaters were always too short, which he blamed on his “abnormally long torso”, and he always unbuttoned too many damn buttons. The November weather was anything but forgiving and the cold stung my skin like millions of poisonous needles piercing into my cheeks all at once. I curled up my fingers inside of my pockets and headed down the street, scanning my surroundings. The dim lighting of the already dark streets was making it very difficult to distinguish anyone’s features. I smiled at a random girl who came strolling my way but my grin faded as soon as her red hair blew away from her face, uncovering gorgeous raspberry lips. There would be no losing tonight.

It was my last night and I would not let it go to waste.


	2. Chapter 2

I had been walking for what felt like weeks, but knew to be simply an hour or two, when I stumbled upon the infamous diner. Nothing about the place was inviting. The neon sign at the entrance was only half as bright as every other on the street. There was no enticing feature to catch my eye. I could not detect the smell of roses or cake or perfume. I was desperate and my feet were sore and I couldn’t get Gabe’s stupid smirk out of my mind. I couldn’t let the bastard win.  _ He wouldn’t let me hear the end of it.  _ I had only gotten ridden of the horrible “Pee-Peeter” nickname a few months before, after nearly two years of harassment from the guys following a drunken urination mishap. I couldn’t bear to imagine what they’d come up with this time.

I remember hoping I wouldn’t be the only damn customer in this scummy bar. I remember praying for some buck toothed girl I could charm into sharing a few drinks. I remember being sorely disappointed on both fronts. I remember there being a voice. Deep and layered, but somehow shaky and lacking confidence, like an opera singer with bad stage fright. I could’ve been fooled into believing it was simply the jukebox if there hadn’t been such an hesitation in his words.

“In the early morning rain with a dollar in my hand, with an aching in my heart and my pockets full of sand. Now, I'm a long way from home and I miss my loved ones so, in the early morning rain with no place to go.”

I walked up to the counter with both my hands still stuffed inside my pockets. There was no customer to be seen and the only presence near the kitchen was a middle-aged woman rubbing the ceramic angrily with a red rag. She had her silver hair lazily tied behind her head and her features were dripping with fatigue.

“I would like a coffee, my dear.” I asked, careful to speak with a low, soothing voice. I had never been one to flirt especially well.

The woman raised her head to meet my gaze. Her expression remained frozen in apathy. She grabbed the nearest mug, rubbed the same dirty rag she had been holding around the handle and placed it on the counter between us. She poured some lukewarm coffee into the cup and added, still indifferent:

“We’re closing up soon.” She said, grabbing the empty glasses nearby. “Milk, cream or sugar?”

“I’ll drink it black. Better get used to it!” I said with a smirk, trying to hint at my military status. Unimpressed, the woman simply turned around and disappeared in the kitchen with a few plates and her red rag.  _ So much for our date. _

I found myself alone once again with nothing but my cold coffee and the music buzzing in my ears.

“Now, the liquor tasted good and the women all were fast. Well, there she goes, my friend, well she's going down at last.”

It was a boy. Some guy about my age. Maybe a bit younger. Chubby face, scarlet cheeks. Golden hair. He was perched over a cheap guitar in the corner of the restaurant, hidden behind a few wooden boxes.. His gaze followed his own fingers as he stroked the chords. He was wearing a pink apron a simple white collared shirt. Simple, simple boy.

I wish there was a way to explain what went down in my head that night. What caused me to take step after step, knowing there was no girl in the damn place, knowing I could’ve just walked out. I wish I had any idea why I decided to go up to him and use up all of the charisma I had left.

He was a guy. A guy.  _ That’s it. No one else would bring back another fucking guy. _

“You’ve got one hell of a voice.” He hadn’t noticed me coming in. He probably hadn’t even heard me creeping up to the counter before. I must’ve remembered the lessons my father had taught me when he dragged me on neverending hunting trips. I looked down to his chest to read the name tag pinned to his apron. “Patrick.”

“I-...Thank you.” He stared at me, stuttering. “I’m sorry about this, there wasn’t-... The place was all quiet, you see? And it gets really lonely when it’s silent and I needed to practice but-... Anyway, I’m sorry-”

That’s when I first saw his face. Square Buddy Holly frames were hanging, slightly crooked, on his nose. His pale skin was almost immaculate, with specks of beige scattered across his face.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m not hungry.” I said, insisting on how calm I was.  _ He’s slipping away. God. God! Say something. For fuck’s sake, Pete. Hook him in. _ “What were you singing?”

“That’s, uh…” Patrick hesitated. “Early Morning Rain.”

“Love that band.”

“You mean Gordon Lightfoot?” 

“Yeah. Sorry!” I chuckled. “Early Morning Rain, that’s the-”

“The song.”

“It’s certainly one of his best.”

“I think so too.” My comment brought a soft, genuine smile to his lips and he seemed to ignore my obvious fuckup.  _ Good. This might be easier than I thought. _ His naivety made my stomach turn.

“I’m Peter. Most folks call me Pete. Nice to meet a fellow Lightfoot enthusiast!” 

I couldn’t believe my own words. Everything sounded so fake I might’ve as well have had a puppet spit them out. _ Keep going, Pete. This isn’t enough. More bullshit! More! _

“Nice to meet you. I’m-”

“Patrick.” I said before he could finish speaking, pointing his name tag.

“Yes.”

“Pleasure.” 

I offered my hand in an uncomfortably formal way. Patrick accepted to shake it and we stood in silence for too many seconds, like businessmen with nothing to sell.

“Where did you learn to sing like that, Patrick?” _ Flattery will get you anywhere. Gabe’s number one trick. _

“I don’t know, I-” He blushed. “There are lots of musicians in my family.”

“I bet you’re the best.”

“I-..Well, I don’t know if I would say that.”

“Patrick! Your break’s over!” I recognized the woman from earlier. She was screaming from the kitchen. “Go set up the tables for tomorrow, will you?”

Patrick put his guitar down and straightened the collar around his neck.

“I’m sorry, I have to get back to work.”

The woman’s head appeared behind the door frame and she glared at me.

“Your coffee’s getting cold.”

I shook my head.  _ I don’t care about the damn coffee. I’ve moved on to another ruse, woman. Can’t you see?  _

Patrick picked up a bag of sugar from one of the wooden boxes and made his way past me, squeezing his body between my own and the wall. He stopped by the first table and started filling up the containers one by one.

“Do you write your own stuff?” I continued, following him into the dining area.

“I’m not really a writer.” He shook his head.

“Do you write letters by any chance?” I smiled, leaning on the table so that he’d be forced to look at me.

“I-Yes. Sometimes.” He put the sugar down. “Why?”

“Well, you see. I’m going off to Vietnam very soon.” I pulled out my wallet to show him my identification card. “I’m a marine. I’d love to have you as a pen pal. I heard it gets terrible lonely up there. I’d love to know more about your music. You could send me the latest Gordon Lightfoot lyrics.”

“I guess I could do that.” He smiled.

“Now, that really warms my heart, Patrick.”

I didn’t give a damn about music or letters or penpals. There was nobody I cared about enough to write to. He didn’t have to know. This was a pickup game, not a testimony. I took a napkin from him and scribbled some bullshit address with the pen I had kept in my jacket. He kept glaring at my identification card.

“Why do you look so angry in this picture?” He pointed to my small roster photo. I shrugged.  _ Why did he care? _

“I’m not angry. I’m just ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“Ready to fight. Right to defend my country.”

“I see.” He handed me back my card, unimpressed. I had visibly gone the wrong direction with my patriotic mumbo-jumbo. His attention went back to the stains of ketchup on the small table between us.

“My pals would love you, I’m sure!” I rambled.  _ Fill up the silence, dumbass. _ “Jarheads love folk music. Jarheads, that’s what we marines call ourselves. It’s actually kind of a mean word but it’s ok if we say it. If some guy in the fucking navy calls me a jarhead though, we’ll have some problems!”

Patrick chuckled, uncomfortable.  _ Why did you have to bring this whole beating up thing, Pete? Shut your fucking trap. _

“Of course, it would be ok if you said it. Cause we’re friends now, and all. So I know you don’t mean any harm by it.” I said as I watched Patrick continue to rearrange the condiments on the table. “Say… When do you guys close up in here? Cause there’s this party I have to go and, well… I would really enjoy your company. It’s a marine party, you see. So you could meet my friends too!” 

“Well, I’m not sure, I mean…” Patrick turned to look at the clock on the wall. “Doors close in about fifteen minutes but I have to stay behind to help my aunt clean up and all. So, I’m not sure if-”

“Of course. I understand. I wouldn’t want to get in the way of your business.” I shook my head.  _ Play the sympathy card. Look sad. Give him your best fucking defeated eyes. _ “I don’t know why I asked, It’s only my last party before I get shipped off so, I figured… Nevermind. This was dumb.”

I took a few steps back. 

“I shouldn’t bother you any longer. I can see you’re very busy and… I’ll go now. But it was very nice to meet you, Patrick.” I faked a bow and walked closer to the exit. “You really have an amazing voice. It was a pleasure to hear you. I’ll keep that in there, when I’m gone.”

I placed my fist over my chest, in a “cross to the heart” gesture. I pushed the door and walked back out into the crisp November air. The bell above my head rang and I sighed in disappointment.  _ Why did you try to go after a guy, anyway? This was stupid. So fucking stupid. You’re going to lose this fucking dogfight and you’ll never hear the end of it. Great fucking job, Corporal. _

I leaned against the brick wall of the restaurant and pulled yet another cigarette from my back pocket. I didn’t have anything to light it. I placed it between my teeth. Immobile. I blew out smoke that didn’t exist. I stared at the lamppost before me until the light got all foggy and I started to feel dizzy. He really did have a gorgeous voice. It’s a shame. I didn’t know Gordon Lightfoot but I was certain Patrick could sing a thousand times better.  _ How did the lyrics go, again? In the early morning rain with a dollar in my hand, with an aching in my heart and my pockets full of sand… _

“Peter!” I was awakened from my trance by Patrick’s voice. The pink neon light of the welcome sign painted colors around his face in swift strokes, like a Renaissance mural.

“Hi.”

“I want to, uh-... I’ll go to your party. With your jarhead friends.” He grinned. “Wait for me, will you?”


	3. Chapter 3

I waited for Patrick by the barber shop across the street. The blinds were open but all of the lights were shut. The inside was empty, except for a single mirror, nailed to the wall and a trash bag in the corner. A single cardboard sign, on which big red letters spelled ‘CLOSED. THANK YOU FOR TEN GREAT YEARS OF BUSINESS’ was taped to the door. The handwriting was messy and rushed, like it had taken all the strength in the world to write down these words. I stared at my reflection in the dirty windows. I could picture myself, age 6, sitting on the stool and being absolutely petrified. I was scared I’d fall off. That stool seemed like the highest thing in the world. And I was convinced that if I slipped, I’d die. I didn’t slip. My father held my hand. I cried just a little bit. But I didn’t slip. My father didn’t talk a lot but he was good at holding hands.

I think my father passed that down to me. I’m not good with words. Or maybe I am, but they just sound better coming out of my pen than out of mouth. Fathers can fuck you up big time. Mine never taught me how to speak my mind but he showed me how to have a conversation with your mouth shut. My friends weren’t all so lucky. Gabe had a terrible father and he constantly talked smack about him. I mean, I never even met the guy and even I started to resent him. He tried to seem tough but it didn’t work. Sometimes, Gabe did terribly awful things and when we tried to tell him he was acting like a dick, he said “If he doesn’t have to be a good dad, why should I have to be a good son?”. And neither, Joe nor I knew what to say, so we didn’t say anything. And sometimes, Gabe cried. So we forgave him for doing those terribly awful things.

When I glanced at my watch, it was almost a quarter past nine. I had lost a considerable amount of time wandering the streets without really focusing on those around me. I probably missed a few excellent candidates in my weird early nostalgia. I always knew I was a wanderer. Chicago could be explored endlessly. If it hadn’t been for Joe and Gabe I certainly would’ve spent my last night discovering new alleyways and street corners. I would’ve watched the drunk boys spill out of the bars at dawn, clumsily bumping into each other, the way my friends and I had done so many times. I would’ve sat down by a bakery at 4 in the morning, basking in the warm scent of the bread baking and the roasted coffee of the early risers. I would’ve walked to the station, my bag over my shoulder, taking in the sleeping skyscrapers for the last time and I would’ve headed into this war with enough memories to last me my entire service. Alas, there was no time for hanging around. I had to prove to my friends I was a real man before the first rays of thee morning sun. 

Patrick was wearing a hat when he came out the door. I remember that precisely, mostly because I never wore hats. Joe hated hats. Gabe hated hats. Patrick wore hats. A ridiculous, newsie hat. He walked with a beat, like there was a song playing and he wanted to match the drums. I had both my hands stuffed inside my pockets and my heart was playing its own percussion set. 

Lamp posts would blink once and twice and go out and it didn’t bother him. I envied it. It pissed me off.  _ Careless. Happy. Yeah, happy. Not bullshit alcohol-induced happiness or jerking-off happiness or winning-at-pool happiness. The real deal. _

“I’ve never been to a bar before, y’know?”

“You don’t say…” I replied. I could’ve tried to care a little more.

“I don’t have much time, with the dinner and the music and all. But it sounds exciting. I hope they have some good tunes on the jukebox. My aunt won’t buy a new one for the dinner. They’re all the same old songs. It gets tiring.”

The honesty with which he spoke frightened me. He should’ve known better than to trust me. I wanted to throw up on the sidewalk. I stepped directly in a puddle and some of the water splashed on the cuffs of my pants. Patrick noticed it immediately. _ Of course he did.  _ He offered to walk back to the dinner so he could lend me a clean pair. I said no. 

“I keep forgetting you’re a marine. I guess you have to get used to dirt, uh?” He shrugged.

“Sometimes, I forget it too.” I blurted out.

He stopped walking. He looked at me. I wanted to puke even more. The hunt for the perfect date was a lot more work than I had expected. Picking up just any stranger off the street probably would’ve been a much easier task, but finding just the right combination of miserable facial features and weird personality had proven to be much more complicated. So I had settled for this boy with long eyelashes who wouldn’t stop glaring at me like he was trying to read words hidden between my teeth.  _ Stop looking at me like that. I’m gonna go insane. _

“Why did you join the marines?” Patrick asked me as he picked up his pace again,

“Felt like the right thing to do.” I shrugged. There was nothing more to say about it. Enlisting had not been a product of great patriotism. It hadn’t been motivated by a need for self-sacrifice or violence or justice. I had been handed a contract to sign and I had watched the pen move as if my hand weren’t really holding it.

“Doesn’t it bother you, y’know… Having to go there to kill a bunch of people?”

I smirked. I couldn’t believe my ears.

“I-... You sound just like Andy.” 

“Who’s Andy?”

“Just a guy I know.”

“Does Andy hate you?”

_ What kind of question is that? _

“He doesn’t mind me.”

“And what do you think of him?”

“I don’t mind him either.”

Patrick scoffed. I had a feeling he was dissatisfied with my answer.  _ What did he expect? The list of topics on which we disagreed? _

“He’s a bit of an idealist for my taste.” I added. “He’s a nice guy, it’s just- Some situations you can only fix with a fist to the face.”

“Then…. I’m more like Andy, I think.” He nodded, like he was agreeing with himself.

“A pacifist?”

“An optimist.” He corrected.

_ Nauseated. This is the only word I have in mind. I’m sick. This is sick. Who do you think you are, Pete? _

In a hurry to shift our discussion into another direction, I spat out:

“You should’ve brought your guitar.” I suggested. I grinned, pleased with my attempt at some half-arsed compliment.  _ What artist doesn’t like to be complimented, anyway?  _

“Oh, I-... I don’t think I’m ready to play in front of people just yet.” His response was wrapped in scarlet cheeks, with a soft smile tied around it like a bow.

“That’s a shame.”  _ Fuck. Why don’t you take the bait? Why won’t you swallow the damn hook like everybody else? _

It took nearly twenty minutes to get back to the bar. It simply made me realize how much time had been wasted on my first journey, when I had to stop for all the red lights of my goddamn mind. The bar was a lot more crowded than when I had first left it. I didn’t give a shit. I dragged Patrick inside, grabbing his arm so I wouldn’t lose him in the masses. He seemed startled but didn’t say a word.  _ Good. He knows. He’s the deer and I’m the hunter. No, scratch that. I’m the fucking bullet. _

I found Gabe in a matter of seconds. Even in such a jungle, he was one of the tallest people around. 

“Gabriel!” I screamed, in my best phony spanish accent. “Here you are!”

Gabe was sitting at one of the booths, his arm around a girl. She didn’t look so horrible from afar. Her hair was nicely combed into one of those beehives you always see in magazines, and her dress seemed like it had cost at least ten bucks. It was once you got closer that she grew into a full-fledged disaster. Her lower arms were covered in track marks, and bruises or hickeys or something equally as disgusting. When she smiled, she uncovered an enormous gap, with almost all of her top teeth gone, leaving behind only a few miserable pearls. She was a vision from a nightmare.  _ Gabe had done nicely. _

“Well, Peter…” He insisted on rolling the last ‘r’. I wanted to punch him. “I was starting to think you might’ve gotten lost.”

He raised his brows, as if he wanted me to congratulate him on his amazing catch.  _ Enjoy your fabricated sense of victory, Gabe. Wait until you see who I brought. _

“Actually…” I grabbed Patrick, who had been standing as far as possible, by the shoulder and brought him closer to both me and the table. “I met this wonderful guy on the way here. Which is why it took me so long.”

Gabe’s eyes grew the size of the sun. _ Checkmate, you fucker. _


	4. Chapter 4

The booth was horribly small. So small I could feel my heart in my throat. And Patrick’s. And maybe even Joe’s, although it might have been the two beers. The ceiling was getting lower and lower and my stomach was getting heavier and my urge to puke wouldn’t go away. Gabe kept throwing dirty glances my way, both impressed and a little furious.  _ You wish you had thought of it first, asshole.  _

Joe had brought back a woman old enough to be his mother. Time had not been forgiving on her features and her eyes were droopy with fatigue. Her greying hair hung low behind her neck and her earrings, large and obnoxious, caught the light with her every move, momentarily blinding me on multiple occasions. She was wearing some horrendous vomit-green cardigan. Her name was Greta or Patsy or Betty. Something ugly and forgettable, A name that sounded beige or greenish grey.

I shook hands with her, just to be polite. Her palms were dry. Her fingers interlaced with mine for a little too long. I didn’t know what to say. So, I didn’t say a word.

Patrick just stared at us. Confused, maybe. Amused, mostly. He could read how out of place I felt.  _ As long as he remains oblivious, he can laugh all he wants. God, I hope he keeps grinning like this. Everything would be much easier. _

“You’re a musician, uh?” Gabe smirked in Patrick’s direction. It made my skin crawl. Why did he have to be  _ himself  _ so much?

“I play music. For fun. But-”

“Sounds like a musician to me.”

“Uh, I guess.” Patrick whispered.

“We love musicians, here. We really do. Joe over there used to play the guitar!” Gabe smirked in Joe’s direction.

Joe nodded along without saying a word and instead brought his glass to his lips.

“I don’t get to talk with a lot of musicians because I work a lot and- What kind of guitar? Mine isn’t really fancy. I wish I had the money to afford one of those really beautiful ones, with the glossy finish. Everytime I walk by the store I have to stop just to look at them. Is that weird? It sounds weird. Oh God, I keep rambling-”

“Not weird at all! We do that all the time!” Gabe replied, with the fakest smile I’ve ever seen. He shared a glance with Joe and I.  _ Nice catch _ , he meant.  _ This guy is a lunatic. _

Gabe finished his glass of gin and hit it against the table with unnecessary ferocity, like he’d been struck by lighting.

“Did you know Pete’s quite the writer? You should take a look at his things. Maybe you’d have some song material, wh-”

“That’s enough.” I stopped him.  _ Why did he say that? Why did he bring that up?  _ I didn’t write for anyone. I didn’t even write for me. It was just word vomit. It was just an attempt at slowing down the waves so I wouldn’t drown. I kept it all in notebooks I never went through again. I didn’t write songs. Patrick’s voice was nothing short of ethereal. And all I wrote were ugly, ugly things. “Can we get some more drinks over here?” I gestured towards one of the employees. I was desperate to drown this night at the bottom of any bottle. 

Gabe leaned forward on the table, unwrapping his arm from the neck of his date, so that he’d be closer to Patrick. She grimaced, hiding her horrible toothless smile for the first time in fifteen minutes.

“Are you into that? The whole tortured artist shtick?” He whispered, a hint of mockery in his tone.

“Beers! Do you want a beer, Patrick?” I shouted, trying to simultaneously cover the sound of Gabe’s voice and attract one of the bar’s employees to the table.

_ This is a mistake. This is a horrible, horrible mistake. Why did I bring him here? Why did I think this was a good idea? _

“I don’t really drink.” Patrick refused, politely.

“Surely, you’ll have a beer! Right? Alcohol. Some alcohol. That will do nicely.” I babbled. “Yes. Drink some beer. And so will I. And so should Gabe. Won’t you have a drink, Gabriel? You must be craving a drink!”

“I’ll have a beer.” Joe intervened, noticing my uneasiness. He shook his head of curls in the direction of one of the bartenders. 

I didn’t speak again until I had downed two bottles. I drank like a cowboy just out of the Nevada desert, with fast loud gulps and moist palms. My fingertips were getting tingly and I could hear myself thinking just a little too loud. Everything needed to be toned down. Alcohol always made everything better. Patrick’s glare didn’t make me feel so damn sorry for myself anymore. Gabe wasn’t as annoying. Joe’s date got a little prettier, a little younger. The lights turned into fog and the music sounded a lot more like an angry beehive.

The guys questioned each other’s date and I pretended to care about the girls’ responses, nodding along without really listening. Joe made up some bullshit about guitars and a concert that never happened, just to get Patrick to ramble more. They were setting up his stage.  _ Come see some poor kid make a fool out of himself! _ I didn’t laugh. None of this was funny.

“How did you guys meet?” Patrick asked, taking a shy sip from his beer. It was obvious he wasn’t much of a drinker. He was just too damn nice to leave the beverage untouched. 

“It’s not much of a story.” I shook my head. I wanted to throw up. I kept drinking. 

“I was one hell of a dancer, you see? And Pete over there was so impressed by my moves, he had to befriend me, so that I would teach him my ways!” Gabe said, watching me shaking my head. “And if I’m not mistaken, this exact song was playing! Ain’t that right, Joseph?”

Joe chuckled, obviously amused by my misery, and nodded.

“If I may.” Gabe offered his hand to his toothless date as he stood from the booth. She accepted his offer and joined him, wrapping herself around his long body without asking any questions. “Let’s have some fun, friends. Let’s dance!”

Without even waiting for a response on our part, Gabe grabbed his date by the waist and moved to dancefloor only a few feet away. The song was one of the slow, heartbreaking ballads, with horribly mundane lyrics. Joe and his elder joined Gabe a few moments later, swaying to the soft notes of the piano. I sat next to Patrick, drunk and uncomfortable. 

“We should leave. This is boring.” I slurred in Patrick’s direction, hoping none of the guys would hear it. 

He ignored me.

“This is a nice song.” He simply said.

“It’s okay.” I shrugged. I was running out of phony lines.

“It’s simple. I like it.”

The singer sounded like an Hollywood actor, with perfectly combed hair and a three-story mansion. It pissed me off.  _ What do people like that know about love, anyway? _

“We should join them.” Patrick said.

I glanced at the dancefloor. Dozens of couples, with their bodies pressed against each other. Chests close enough to feel the other’s heat without touching them. Necks to necks, so that warm breaths may cause hearts to breaks. Tender eyes reading each other and writing down notes between irises. 

“I-... This is practically a waltz.”

“I didn’t know a jarhead could be such a wuss.” He grinned.


	5. Chapter 5

I’ve never been much of a dancer. I’m clumsy. I trip on my own feet. I had only been out to dance with a girl once or twice, mostly because the guys had insisted I did. Mostly because I’d had a drink and couldn’t really think straight anymore. My hands would shake and my knees would squeak and I’d find some bullshit excuse to get myself out of it. There was always a bullshit excuse. I didn’t care for most songs and I didn’t care for most girls. It was easier that way.

Patrick got me to dance. He got me to join him on the dance floor, with my shaking hands and my squeaky knees, and sway to the sound of trumpets and violins. At first , I just stared at him from my seat, as he joined the rest of the couples stuck in synchronized embraces. He simply moved his upper body slowly, like a soft wind was blowing inside, and closed his eyes. He smiled. So did Gabe. So did Joe. They looked at him, forgetting their horrendous dates and smiled. So, I joined him. Just because.  _ Smile at me, you bastards. Waste all your crooked teeth and vengeful smirks on me. _

“Finally!” Patrick joked once I was close enough to hear him speak again.

“I’m sorry for taking so long, I just… Don’t really dance. Especially not, y’know, slow dancing.”

_ Why am I forgetting all words I’ve ever spoken? _

“Don’t even worry about it. I’ll show you.” He shrugged.

“Do you mean-”

“This is a waltz, Peter. It works a lot better with a partner.” He said, like none of this mattered. Like my two best friends weren’t staring at us with mischievous smirks. Like we weren’t two guys about to hold hands in the middle of a bar, to a bad song about spring romance in Paris. 

Patrick gestured to me so that I’d move closer. I stumbled towards him, nervous and intoxicated. He was a few inches shorter than me. I hadn’t really noticed before. 

“There’s a leader and a follower, you see. Usually, the leader is the guy but-” He shook his head. “Anyway, just-... Put your hand here.”

He grabbed my arm and put my left hand over his shoulder. 

“Okay. Perfect. Stay like that. And I should, uh-” He placed his hand right above my waist. I held back a shiver. His palm pressed in the curve just above my hip bone. “Like this. Hold my other hand.”

I did. I held his hand, in all of my clammy, shaking glory. He didn’t seem to notice. He smiled again. God, I really wanted to puke.

“And now, you just follow my lead.” 

And so, I did. He moved his feet along the melody, expecting mine to follow. I stepped on his toes more than once. Each time I apologized in drunken fear and sober shame. Each time he scoffed, shook his head and told me to take my time. I was dizzy and nauseated and I could feel Gabe’s glare burn a hole through my dress shirt.

Joe’s date had her head resting on his shoulder, but her eyes were fixated on the bartender across the room. How embarrassing.  _ The last choice’s last choice. _

“Where did you learn to dance like this?” I mumbled, embarrassed after yet another misstep.

“Big family. Lots of weddings.” Patrick brushed off my compliment, his cheeks hinting at rosy flattery. “You’ve really never danced a waltz before?”

“Small family. Broken marriages.” I replied, playing off his answer. 

I couldn’t recall ever attending a wedding. I knew married people but no married couples. My parents lived in the same house, but never together. My grandparents’ union had been painted out of controversy, drawn by a shotgun and a unborn baby. Joe had a girlfriend he swore to love until the end of time, until she went and kissed a bunch of guys next door. I’d only known back alley fucks and miscalculated kisses.  _ Patrick smiled like someone who believed in love. _

“Well. That’s a shame.” 

He looked up at me with genuine pity. He felt honest sorrow at the thought of me growing up without tasting romance-infused coffees and golden rings lost in pie crusts. I really thought he was about to cry. His eyes were all glassy and round, catching and reflecting every speckle of light around the room.  _ Punch me in the face, why don’t you? Just knock out all my teeth. _

Gabe’s date kept throwing furious glances our way, whispering with her crooked grin into my friend’s ear. While I couldn’t make out any of the words, I knew she was cursing me out. I knew she was mocking us. I knew she was praying I’d push Patrick to the ground, just for laughs. That’d I spit in his face or hit him just hard enough with my knee, say it was an accident and watch him accept my phony apology as my friends snickered in the background. Just because I could. But I didn’t.

I wanted to puke. I wanted to get the hell out of there. But I didn’t want to let go of his hand.

“We should leave. I’m not too feeling too well.” I whispered, just close enough for only Patrick to hear.

“Don’t give up now! You’re getting a lot better.” 

“It’s not this, it’s… I’ve had a lot to drink and I-... I think I might need some fresh air, y’know.” 

Patrick seemed confused. He took his hands away from me and crossed his arms over his chest.  _ He thinks it’s his fault. Look at his damn face. He thinks he did something wrong. He’s analyzing the way he pressed his hand on your hip and how your fingers interlaced and if he should’ve accepted that drink and if he should’ve stopped you from drinking yours. You brought him a lie on a silver platter and he’s blaming himself for not turning it into gold. _

“Please, don’t think-... Let’s go outside, uh? Would you please go outside with me? This place is too crowded. I can’t hear myself thinking.”


	6. Chapter 6

_ Buzz. Buzz. My head is filled with bees. Poking and stinging behind my eyeballs. I can’t hear shit. Just the bees. What was the name of that girl in school who was so damn allergic? I think she had blonde hair. Pretty girl. Mean bees. God, I could’ve killed her. Joe said she was a bitch. Maybe so. My head is filled with bees. There are so many, they’re knocking against each other. They’re gonna make my skull burst into a billion pieces. Buzz. Buzz. _

I sat on a fire hydrant, right outside the bar, with my head between my hands. I hit my temples over and over, hoping the noise would quiet down.  _ I’ve had too much to drink.  _ I kept thinking of the night my father took me to the circus. How I made myself so damn sick on caramel apples. And how they shot that man out of a canon.  _ I wanna shoot myself. Shoot myself into the stars.  _

The notes from the bar’s jukebox came hobbling out the bar like drunken sailors, distorted and hazy. There were words I had never heard and couldn’t bother to learn.  _ One more fucking song about afternoon lips and evening ankles.  _

My fingers were trembling, desperate for a cigarette to hold or the neck of a beer bottle to break. The pack in my coat pocket was empty. I stood still, reaching out to the sweet nothing in the night breeze.  _ I’ll inhale the Chicago air, the prostitute by the streetlight, the abandoned bicycle against the wall, the  broken tree branches and the knots in my shoelaces. I’ll breathe them all in and exhale nothing but inebriated reflections. _

I wondered if nights were as long in Vietnam. Maybe I wouldn’t have to sit outside, drawing the outlines of the scar inside my palm until rays of lights came peeking out anymore. I heard soldiers never sleep. _ Good. _

I needed Patrick to come out. I needed to see his figure through the doorframe. With every passing second, I felt my body shiver with nausea.  _ He should be out by now. What is he still doing inside? Why isn’t he here with me?  _

I reckoned I’d ask him about his favorite records. If he cared about the damn lyrics as much as I did. I’d act all nostalgic, mention the titles of some washed up jazzy songs my father showed me as a kid. Patrick would know them all. He would joke around, sing the chorus or the bridge. He’d add riffs and alliterations as he’d go along. Not to show off. Just because. I’d clap too loudly or pretend to bow. He’d turn ruby red and hide his face. I wouldn’t care. Because I would’ve heard him sing.

I thought about taking him down a few streets. Ask if he’s ever been to _ Danya’s Sweeterie _ . He’d say no, because no one ever goes there anyway. I’d offer to buy him whatever he’d like but I’d hint at the cherry blossoms, because they’re the best. He’d say he’s never had one because no one ever has. We’d end up buying a whole bag and eating them by the entrance, with our legs crossed like children.

I imagined us simply walking until the sun came back out. I would be dizzy and disoriented but he wouldn’t care. He’d giggle when I’d run into lampposts and hold me back by my jacket’s sleeve when I’d try to cross the street a little too fast. He would never complain about his legs being sore. Because he’s not like that. He would point out how the colors at dawn look like a melting point of old watercolors and I’d nod because there is no better way to describe it. I’d feel ashamed because I’m supposed to be the writer, yet he’s the poet. I’d ask how he gets to see so much beauty in everything and he’d just shrug. And there would be nothing more to say about it.

By the time I ran out of foolish scenarios, Patrick came out the door. It flew open, hitting the brick wall with such fracas I feared the glass would shatter.  _ He’s here. He’s finally here. Good. It’s all okay, now. This is over. And he’s here.  _

“Here’s your money.” Patrick spat out once he reached my side of the street. 

He handed me a small stack of twenty dollar bills with trembling hands.

“What-”

“Here’s your fucking money!” He repeated, louder. 

_ He must think I’m somebody else. Maybe he’s even more of a lightweight than he thought. That must be it. He’s drunk and he thinks I’m some other guy. _

“You won, you asshole!”

“Patrick-”

_ No. No. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! I’m going to fucking throw up. This can’t be. He can’t be talking about this. There is no way. No way! _

Before I could spew out some clumsy excuse, Patrick threw the money at me, hitting me in the middle of the chest. I lost balance and felt my body hit the wall behind me. The bills flew to the ground slowly. _ God. I look like some whore. _

Patrick was shorter than me by a few inches but his shoulders were wider. His physique was sturdy and if it hadn’t been for his angel face, he would’ve seemed like Chicago’s second best street fighter.  _ He could take me down with a punch. But he wouldn’t. _

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Patrick screamed. His voice was hoarse with rage, like the anger had burnt his vocal chords. There was no doubt in my mind that his shouts had made their way back inside the bar. Everyone could hear him.  _ The spectacle continues.  _

He stared at me with red tear-filled eyes. He was begging for an explanation. He wanted me to brush this whole thing off, to blame Gabe or Joe, to tell him this was some sick joke I never agreed to. He wanted me to be someone I wasn’t, someone better. I couldn’t say a damn thing.  _ Have I not lied enough?  _

“I’m so sorry…” I blurted out.

“Sorry? You’re fucking sorry? No! I am! I’m sorry for  _ you _ ! You’re all horrible, filthy fucking people! You’re mean and cruel and you take advantage of people. I was nice to you. I listened, I- God. I can’t believe I came here! How could you do something like this?”

He grabbed me by the collar. For a moment, I really believed he was going to punch all of my teeth out. I wish he had. _ I need help feeling sorry for myself. _

“I hope you fucking die up in Vietnam, Peter. I hope you die so I never have to see your horrible face again and remember what an awful person you are.”

He let me go. Walked away. I couldn’t watch him. I puked my guts out on the pavement. I could still feel his hand around my neck.


	7. Chapter 7

“Hey there! Pete? You good? You want some water or something?” Joe’s head of loose curls hung above my quasi-corpse on the sidewalk. 

I couldn’t remember lying down. It was an awful lot like falling asleep at the movie theater. My brain was mixing up bits of dialogues and scenes that never took place, trying to make sense of an unfinished scenario. I remembered only fuzzy pictures, like I was dreaming and I couldn’t make up what was nonsensical anymore. Funny how in dreams even the craziest of things seem to be just right.

I almost stepped back inside the bar, dragged by Joe. His fingers, tightly wrapped around my right arm, pressed into my skin. His touch felt so foreign. It was all wrong.  _ Every inch of my skin has been rented out.  _ I could’ve punched him in the face. I could’ve punched anyone around. I didn’t. I felt dizzy. I would’ve missed my shot. I resisted. I held on, letting my boots sink into the sidewalk, the soles melting down until my feet were a puddle of shame underneath my heavy carcass.

The cold turned into quiet and the quiet turned into empty glasses and the empty glasses turned into the screams of Gabe, a bottle of bourbon away from good decisions. He was pissed I’d won but he couldn’t deny that it was a well-deserved win. I’d brought back a guy. No toothless prostitute could ever beat a fucking guy. He was nothing if not jealous he hadn’t thought of it first. I sat on the sidewalk, my eyes ready to jump out of my skull, and let my head fall on my knees.

“That was a ballsy move, Wentz.” Gabe mumbled as he finally stumbled out of the bar for the last time. He let himself drop down next to me, like he had done so many other nights before. “I gotta hand it to ya. Winners take risks.”

“We shouldn’t have done this.” I shook my head, just enough for the dizziness to come hurrying back.

“Last nights justify the means or whatever the saying is.” Joe added, trying to support Gabe’s drunken rambling, as he made his way out the door and next to us.

“Will you stop saying that?” I whispered.

“Saying what?” Joe asked.

“ _ Last night.  _ Will you fucking stop saying that?” I repeated, louder this time. My own voice was giving me headaches. “It’s not our last night! This doesn’t stop here! Don’t you get it? Don’t you fucking get it? Life doesn’t stop for any of us the minute we hop on that plane! We have to keep on living. For nights and nights again and again! We have to remember every fucking thing we did, here in Chicago, or anywhere else. We have to dwell on all the shitty fucking things we put people through until we are blessed enough to get shot in the head by some soldier we could’ve done the same thing to! This isn’t our last fucking night! This is the first one! The first one of so many fucking other nights!”

My two friends, speechless in front of my abrupt spew of rage, knew better than trying to argue with my violent, if flawed, logic. Of course they didn’t truly believe this was our last night. It was a figure of speech. A way to define this era of our life coming to an end. I heard this in their voice — the debilitating fear of never owning such peace of mind again, of seeing the simple pleasures of root beer floats and loose shoelaces drown into the South China Sea. But somehow, I was too intoxicated to show any kind of understanding. 

Gabe and Joe could not be blamed for my bitter remorse. None of them had chosen to bring Patrick to this musty bar, to answer his candy-flavored anecdotes with putrid lies and forced laughter. None of them had lied about folk music or avoided Patrick’s baby blues as they danced. Maybe my friends were bad people. Most of Gabe’s stories were fabricated and bordered on showboating. Joe had a self-righteous essence to his attitude. But they certainly weren’t as bad as me. I was a bad person. And I was about to fly across the world to become even worse.

“I can’t fucking… do this… I can’t let this be my first night….” I mumbled out.

“Fucking relax. It’s only one in the morning.” Gabe joked, unsure whether this would cause me to lash out again. He was too trashed to filter out his thoughts. A hint of regret left his lips as he finished speaking.

“No, you’re right. You’re fucking right. This isn’t over. I don’t have to fucking-... This doesn’t have to end now. I have to find him. I can still find him. I can make this right.”

“Are you serious, Wentz? Jesus fucking Christ….” Joe turned to me.

All this provoked in me was the realization that Joe said “Jesus Christ” an awful lot for a Jewish kid. Had this been a different night, had I been drunker, I might have pointed it out to him. He would have flipped me off and I would have laughed and Gabe would have joined in, even louder, and we would have moved on to another set of scattered, meaningless thoughts. Like we always did. But I didn’t say a damn word.

I got up, resting on Gabe’s shoulder for balance. I threw a glance back at the bar door, now shut behind me. I swear I could see the outline of my dim body, moving through the smoke and jazz. Next to my flickering spirit, Patrick’s body, drenched in fluorescence, swayed shyly. My mother believed in ghosts. I finally understood. Those past versions of ourselves, cursed to repeat our soul’s little deaths over and over, until our bodies give out. 

I didn’t care for my golden touch. How did that story go again? I couldn’t bear this false pretense of luxurious destruction. Midas should’ve cut off his own hands. 


	8. Chapter 8

I had left my friends behind on the bleak side of the streets, their legs crossed amongst my shameful dollar bills. I was far too intoxicated to remember if Patrick had slipped me a word about where he lived, let alone a street name or a door number. I had settled on hopelessly roaming around town, hoping I’d run into him or a gun to shoot myself in the head, whichever came first. Less than a hour later, although my weakening ankles seemed to elongate each minute, I found myself facing the diner where we had first met. The lights were off and the tables empty, with the exception of single forgotten class in one of the isolated booths. I noticed a doorbell by the side of the door frame, most likely used for deliveries and early shifts. My trembling hands reached for the bell without a second thought, buzzing away, once, twice. The sound echoed through the restaurant’s windows, reaching my ears in a moment of abrupt self-awareness.  _ What was I even doing? Why was I here? And why couldn’t get my finger off this damn doorbell? _

A full minute passed before a shadow broke through the vacant diner, shattering the emptiness of the air with heavy steps. Patrick’s hollow eyes appeared through the glass door. The neon sign above us reflected off his round face, with soft candor. He stayed motionless, staring me down with disgust through the window. Had I been repugnant when he’d last seen me, I’d only gotten worse in the following hours. I motioned for him to open the door. He hesitated, but pushed it open. He stuck his foot between the door frame and the street, to keep it from closing without allowing me to enter.

“What do you want?” He spat out.

“Cigarette?” I offered bashfully, pulling my last stick from my back pocket.

“I told you before. I don’t smoke. But I guess you weren’t listening to that either.”

I didn’t.

I put the cigarette back in my pocket, embarrassed. Patrick clenched his jaw, probably biting his tongue to keep himself from cursing me out. I didn’t deserve such restraint. Being so apologetic will kill you.

“Did I win anything?” Patrick asked, with a painfully forced smile. His words burned out of his tongue into the night air. Burning with red, hot rage.

“That’s not-... No. You were disqualified.”

“Disqualified, uh? Please.” He shook his head. “Liar.”

He put his hand against the door so he could take a step closer. Not a request for contact, but a threat.

“What about those other two girls?” He crossed his arms. “Can you imagine how they must’ve felt? Do you really think they can’t feel a damn thing?”

“It’s not like they knew what was going on!” I shrugged, in a poor attempt to defend this stupid excuse of a bet.

“As if that makes things any better!”

I wondered if the other girls did learn about the dogfight. Someone must’ve let their tongue slip if Patrick had learned about the bet. I wouldn’t put it past Gabe to sabotage my night, especially if he knew I was moments away from victory. Gabe hated losing more than any damn thing on this Earth.

“But I-... No. You know what? I tried to talk you out of it. I tried to get you out. Don’t you remember?” I insisted.

“No, you did not.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Yes, I did! Don’t you remember? When we were dancing to that… That stupid song. And I kept saying I was gonna be sick. I tried to pull you out of there. God knows I did! I would’ve given everything to get you the fuck out of that bar.”

“I don’t understand….” Patrick’s weak voice came out in shivers, like scratchy ink on torn up paper.

“What I mean is…. What I’m trying to say….” I struggled to find the next line of my clumsy apology.

“Why are you here, Peter?”

Patrick leaned back, his back now against the door. The space grew between our two bodies. His eyes rose back up to meet mine.  _ Spit it out, Wentz. _

“I’m here because… You’re different. And I’m not, you know? I’m an asshole, like everybody else. Yeah, that’s it. I’m like everybody else. But you’re the first person I meet that-...The first person I meet who’s different. And I know this because I wasn’t afraid to leave before tonight. And now I’m terrified of dying knowing that… Tonight is how you’ll remember me forever. You know? I’m not sure I’ll come back and I-”

“I’m sorry I can’t fix your conscience. You are the one who begged me to come to your stupid party. I’m not going to promise you forgiveness just so you can fucking live with yourself. That’s not how things work.”

“I’m not asking for forgiveness just… A second chance.”

“A chance to do what? To win your damn game without me finding out?”

“No, no, no!” I shook my head rapidly, embarrassed by my pitiful request for forgiveness. “A chance to start this whole night over. And to make it up to you.”

“And why on Earth would I say yes to that?”

_ There is no reason for him to do so. _

“Because I’m leaving at dawn. And I’m drunk out of my mind and I would puke again if there was anything left for me to puke. And my clothes smell like sweat and vomit and I think I lost my wallet somewhere and I only have one cigarette left and I forgot to call my mother like I said I would and… And this is my last fucking night. But I came all the way here to tell you all of this.”

Silence was piercing my skin. The diner had turned into a necropolis, cold and dark, and my entire being lay by Patrick’s feet, waiting for him to dig me back up or throw his own shovel of dirt at my face. His gaze met mine inadvertently and I sensed an hint of doubt in him. The yellow tint of his iris sparkled through the sea of aquamarine shadows. I was moments away from dropping to my knees to beg. I’d hurt numerous people before. I’d stolen from small shop owners, and forgotten girls’ names the morning after. I’d ignored Christmas cards and made fun of inexperienced kids chugging one too many beers. I’d hurt people over and over, so often that the guilt faded into habit.  _ Please don’t let me make me you into another one of them. _

“Fine,” He sighed. “But I need you to know… I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing this because… Because my night’s already been ruined. And I don’t have anything to lose anymore.”


End file.
